“Can the little one last the duration of ___ (X, Y, or Z public sphere experience; you pick it) without a physical/emotional collapse of excruciating proportions? Can we?”

This has limited our luxury dining out experience to a coupla taquerias. It could be worse: a good taqueria was always my other culinary pilgrimage (aside from Mama’s) when I returned home to the Bay Area during my half-dozen years’ expatriation in the Great Upper Midwest.

But with the youngest youngin at three, we’re beginning to see the light. Â We made it through the whole meal at Mama’s with nothing more than a little pre- and post-food loopiness. Â On the little guy’s part. Though the beloved and I got a bit dizzy, too.

“Here we are! In an actual restaurant! And nobody’s spilled anything yet, or burst out crying!”

We’re gonna drink it all in, all of this. There’ll be a time (won’t there be?) when we’ll be lucky to get the two of them to sit with us in public for the duration of a meal without texting their chums under the table.